14 Steps
by PhoenixFire55
Summary: There had always been 14 steps in the staircase leading up to the second flight of the burrow. That had never bothered George... until now. Warning: spoiler from Deathly Hallows.
1. The First Step

14.

14 steps.

7 days was not enough for 14 steps.

7 days since day 1. Day 1 being the first day he was 1. The first day George Weasley was one.

Never one. He was never one. Two. Always two.

8 days being the number since he was 2.

It wasn't the first time he had been at the burrow since day 1. It was, however, the first time he had been through the front door. Every other time he had apparated to the house, seen the garden he and Fred had de-gnomed millions of times, seen the field they had played quidditch on... every other time he had run away. But not this time, not now. Now George stood at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the second floor of the burrow. Now George Weasley stood in front of 14 steps.

14 steps separated George from Fred, and Fred from George. Because George knew that Fred was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. He had to be. Because Fred always waited for George.

_Always._

_Harry's back… Harry's back…. Harry's back. _ That was the one thought that kept running through George's head. _Harry's back._ He should have been able to pull himself out of his grief for just a minute, just one minute to realize that Harry was back. That it was okay, because the boy who lived had lived again. But it wasn't okay. In fact, that only made it worse.

Fred and George had known Harry for a long time, and had grown quite fond of the boy. However, his frequent returns from the world of the dead had begun to annoy George. Begun to eat at his very soul, if you will. 7 brushes with death. 7. _The magic number_, George thought bitterly.

Really, in all fairness, it should have been Harry. It was his destiny, the reason he had fought Voldemort for so long. Plus, he had no family to mourn him. Sure, the Weasley's were as good as Harry's family, but it was harder to lose Fred than it would have been to lose Harry.

It was their own fault, really. Had it not been Fred and George who first found out he was Harry Potter? Who first told Ron who the boy with the jet-black hair was? And it was Fred and George who wouldn't let Ron sit with them in their compartment on the Hogwarts train his first year. If they had, would Ron have ever met Harry? Would they have ever become friends? But more importantly, would Fred and George have still fought in the Battle of Hogwarts? George stood, staring at those 14 steps separating him from his brother, and he realized something.

George had never climbed those stairs alone.

He looked up at the stairs again. They didn't stop at 14, they kept on going. Up and up until they reached the roof. However, it was only 14 steps to the landing where Fred and George's room was, and George knew that was where Fred was waiting. He could feel it, feel Fred calling him. He was up there, waiting for George like he always did. Always.

14 steps.

George took a deep breath and slowly lifted his right foot. Holding his breath, he placed his foot on the first step.

The first step.

Suddenly, George was apparating. Where was he going? Why was he apparating? Then it hit him. I'm going to see Fred… I'm going to see Fred! He's alive! He's calling me! I'm going to see Fred!

"Fred!" George called out as soon as his world stopped spinning. "Fred!" George realized he was at King's Cross station. He turned around.

Platform 9 ¾.

"I'm not Fred, I'm George!"

George spun around, searching for his brother.

"Fred!" George called, but the station was empty. He was all alone.

"Honestly, woman."

"And you call yourself our mother!"

"Fred!" George shouted. "Fred, where are you!"

"Just kidding, I am Fred!"

George heard the whoosh of someone passing through the brick wall of platform 9 ¾. This was quickly followed by a second whoosh.

_Whoosh, Fred , whoosh, George. That's how it always was._

It was Fred, it had to be Fred. Fred was calling him, telling him to follow him through the platform wall.

"Fred!" George said as he flew through the wall. "There you are! I've been looking for y-" Except Fred wasn't there. The platform was empty except for the majestic Hogwarts train.

"Oi, Fred! C'mere and help!"

George spun around. Who was saying that?

"What's that?" George heard someone say. He looked at the train, and in the back of his mind he vaguely saw three figures loading their luggage. Two red-headed boys stood pointing at a lightning shaped scar on the forehead of a shorter, black-haired boy.

"Blimey, are you?"

"He is! Aren't you?"

George watched the two red-heads talk.

"What?" asked the boy with the lightning scar.

"_Harry Potter!_" Fred and George said together.

George felt a tear trickle down his cheek.

"No!" he shouted. "No, he's not! Don't talk to him! Fred! You'll die! Fred! Why can't you hear me?"

"Oh, are you a _Prefect_, Percy? You should have said something, we had no idea!"

"Fred, where are you?" George screamed.

"Hang on, I think I remember him saying something about it. Once-"

"Or twice-"

"A minute-"

"All summer-"

"Oh, shut up," George heard Percy say.

George looked up at the train windows.

"Now, you two- this year, you behave yourselves. If I get one more owl telling me you've- you've blown up a toilet or-" George heard his mom say.

"Blown up a toilet? We've never blown up a toilet."

"Great idea though, thanks Mum."

"It's _not funny_. And look after Ron."

"Don't worry, ickle Ronniekins is safe with us."

"Shut up," came Ron's eleven-year-old voice.

George heard someone crying. He turned around and saw a ten-year-old Ginny crying into Mrs. Weasley's arms.

"Don't, Ginny, we'll send you loads of owls."

"We'll send you a Hogwarts toilet seat."

"_George!_"

George stared at the two boys waving out the window of the train, tears now pouring down his face. Fred and George. But most importantly, Fred. George had never wanted anything more than he wanted to be on that train right now. Off to a world of magic, next to the most magical person in the world. Why couldn't George be on that train? Except, as he watched the train pull away he realized, he was on that train.

As the tears cascaded down his face, George felt himself apparate again. He found himself standing in the Great Hall, during what looked like the sorting ceremony for first years. Dumbledore was standing at the front of the Great Hall, and Harry Potter had the sorting hat on his head.

"Gryffindor!" the hat shouted.

"We got Potter! We got Potter!" George stood and watched as Fred and George yelled loudly, projecting their voices so that the entire Slytherin table could hear them.

George stared at the scene unfolding before him. He was going crazy, that was it. No one was calling him from the dead. He had to get out of there before he completely lost it.

George ran from the room, following the same path he and Fred had taken over and over throughout the years. George didn't even know where he was going, his legs just ran. They knew this path by heart.

Up the same endless flights of moving stairs they had always taken, past the moving portraits Fred and George had spent endless hours mocking. Voices followed him up the stairs.

"Run, Fred! Peeves is right behind us!"

"George, run! FILCH!"

"It's Mrs. Norris!"

"AAAAHHHH!"

George saw two boys running and tripping up the stairs, laughing as they passed him. George knew where they were going. The same place he was.

"And then he called me the _Fat Lady_! And I said, 'I may be a lady, but you sir, are no gentleman!" came the voice of the Fat Lady.

"He called you _FAT?!" _George heard a younger version of himself ask in mock surprise.

"What on _earth_ could have possessed the old fiend to suggest such a thing?" came Fred's voice.

George watched the two boys talk to the lady in the large pink dress.

"I mean, sure. I can see how he could make the mistake of calling you a lady, but fat?"

"Exactly! Even if you have gained a few pounds lately!"

"It's nothing a little exercise couldn't cure!"

"Unlike those wrinkles on your face."

"Parenthesis have a place…"

"And it's not on your face!"

Fred and George both drew invisible parenthesis next to their mouths with their fingers, to prove their point.

The two boys faded away, but the Fat Lady remained. She swung her door open for George, for the first time in his life, not saying a word.

George walked through the portrait hole, watching as two red-heads came storming down the stairs to the boys' dormitories, both wearing blue jumpers with large yellow letters on them. F and G.

"We know our names are Gred and Forge!" George heard a faint voice echo in his head. George looked on as he and Fred walked over to Percy, holding up his jumper.

"P for Prefect! Get it on, Percy, come on, we're all wearing ours, even Harry got one."

"I – don't – want –" said Percy thickly, as the twins forced the jumper over his head, knocking his glasses askew.

"And you're not sitting with the Prefects today, either," said Fred.

"Christmas is a time for family," George finished.

They frog-marched Percy from the room, his arms pinned to his sides by his jumper.

George cracked a smile, turning to look at Fred. But he wasn't there. George felt his intestines collapse. His entire body stopped working. He had to check to make sure his heart was still beating. Fred's wasn't.

George felt himself begin to fall, thinking he would land on the big red cushions in front of the fire, but suddenly he was apparating again. He felt his feet firmly hit the ground. Disoriented, he looked around. He was back on the first step in the burrow. Had he been dreaming?

George stared down at the first step again. The first step. Because really, it was his first step. George believed it to be his first step back to Fred, who had to be waiting for him in their old room. But in reality, it wasn't.

It was his first step away from Fred.

I am going to add more chapters soon, of George going up all 14 steps. Please review!


	2. The Second Step

13 steps.

How hard could it be?

And what were 13 steps, really, if Fred was at the top?

Nothing, that's what.

And so George took a second step.

As soon as his foot made contact with the second step, he felt himself apparate again. George expected to land somewhere in Hogwarts again, where a collection of happy memories hid somewhere, in the same hiding places Fred and George had used in their seven years at the castle.

He landed instead on a cold, hard bed inside number 4 Privet Drive. He watched as a familiar-looking blue Ford Anglia appeared outside the window, which, of course, had bars across it.

"But you can't magic me out either-" A young Harry Potter was saying to Ron.

"We don't need to," Ron said, jerking his head towards the front seats and grinning. "You forget who I've got with me."

George got off the bed, knowing that if he had to see this, he wanted a front- seat view.

"Tie that round the bars," said Fred, throwing the end of a rope to Harry. Fred always had a plan.

Actually, the rope had been George's idea.

As soon as the bars were off, the Weasley's climbed through the window.

George saw his 14-year-old self pull out a hairpin and start picking the lock on the door.

"A lot of wizards think it's a waste of time, knowing this sort of Muggle trick," Fred said. "But we feel they're skills worth learning, even if they are a bit slow."

If Fred had been beside him right then, _his_ Fred, not his _memory's_ Fred, George would've smiled. But he wasn't, so he didn't.

And that's when he got an idea.

Very slowly, George walked over to the 14-year-old Fred. He touched him.

But, like he thought, George's hand simply floated through Fred. After all, you can't touch a memory, can you?

Perfect.

George reached into the pocket of his robes. He grinned as his finger closed around something small. A silver object. A magnetic metal.

A Muggle trick.

George walked up right behind his 14-year-old self. He stepped into the younger version of himself, passing right through it, as he knew he would. The memory of George's 14-year-old self was no longer visible.

Now there was only one George in the room. There was only one Fred in the room.

That made one Fred and George.

And, feeling more like himself that he had in seven days, George lifted the paper clip that he had found in his pocket and gingerly placed it into the keyhole. But the paper clip didn't float through the doorknob as if it wasn't there. George put his hand on the doorknob.

Solid.

He skillfully picked the lock , then followed Fred down the stairs. He got a sudden pang seeing his brother walking next to him again, but pushed it aside. He wasn't alone, not anymore. Because Fred was here, right next to him. _Right here. _Everything would be okay again. _Everything_.

But no matter how hard George tried, he couldn't believe that. So he just forgot about it, and let the moment take him.

Opening the door of the cupboard beneath the stairs, Fred and George simultaneously reached for Harry's suitcase, accidentally slamming their heads together in the process.

"Ow!" they both shouted. They looked at each other angrily, then grinned.

"Bumbling idiot," they both muttered at each other.

It wasn't until they were both lugging the suitcase up the stairs that George froze. The suitcase slipped through his grasp and fell on Fred's foot.

"Ow!" Fred shouted again.

George stared at Fred. They'd slammed their heads together. _Slammed _their _heads_ together. In order to do that, you had to be solid. In order to do that, you can't be a memory.

George reached out and smacked Fred upside the head. Fred stared at him in mild shock.

"What was that for?" he asked in mock outrage. Or was it _real_ outrage?

George frowned, feeling farther away from Fred than ever. He couldn't even tell if Fred was joking anymore.

"Nothing," George mumbled, earning himself a smack on the head from Fred.

Fred, still holding his own head, dragged the suitcase up the stairs by himself, grumbling the whole way.

George slipped back down the stairs and into the Dursleys' bathroom. He stared at the mirror, his mouth wide open in horror. Because fourteen-year-old George was staring back at him.

"Bloody hell," he mumbled, running his hand through his hair.

This was bad. This was very bad. What if he never changed back? What if he was stuck here, in these memories, forever? What if he never, ever grew up?

He smirked.

Well, then that was good. Because if he never changed back, if he never grew up, then Fred would never, ever die.

George touched his face, double-checking that he was, indeed, solid. Satisfied, he darted back up the steps after Fred.

Harry was in the middle of telling Fred and Ron about Dobby, the mysterious house elf. George walked into the room, and tripped over his own feet. He didn't think much about it, just straightened up again.

But then he remembered that he _didn't _remember tripping the time he, Fred, and Ron came here to rescue Harry. In fact, he didn't remember dropping the suitcase on Fred's foot, either. And he certainly hadn't run down the stairs to look at himself in the mirror. He'd changed his memory. He'd changed what happened before.

He'd changed the past.

What else could he change? A minute of the past? An hour? A day?

A death?

George pondered the idea as they all climbed into the Ford Anglia. But his thoughts were quickly interrupted by Harry's Uncle Vernon.

"THAT RUDDY OWL!"

Harry grabbed Hedwig, who he'd momentarily forgotten, and darted across the room. Uncle Vernon caught Harry's ankle just as he reached the window.

Ron, Fred, and George grabbed Harry's arms and pulled him into the car as Uncle Vernon continued to shout.

"Petunia!" he roared. "He's getting away! HE'S GETTING AWAY!"

"Put your foot down, Fred!" Ron shouted as soon as Harry was in the car, and the Ford Anglia suddenly shot toward the moon.

"See you next summer!" Harry yelled to the three Dursley's, who were now all standing at the window, dumbstruck.

The Weasley's roared with laughter, even George.

As Ron and Harry discussed the Dobby dilemma, George couldn't help stealing glances at Fred the whole way back, causing Fred to narrow his eyes suspiciously at George.

"You have something to tell me?" Fred asked.

"No," George said absently, re-directing his gaze to the window.

"Then why do you keep looking at me?"

George shrugged. Then an idea hit him. If he had gone back in time, if he knew everything that would happen in the next five years... did Fred also know? Had Fred gone back in time with him? And how would George be able to tell?

"Fred?" George asked quietly. "What's a skiving snackbox?"

They hadn't thought of the skiving snackboxes until the summer before their fifth year. If 14-year-old Fred knew what those were, then he wasn't really 14.

Fred frowned.

"I don't know," he said. "Why? Do they sell those at Zonko's?"

George shook his head, disappointed.

"No," he said. "They don't. Forget it."

Fred glanced at George curiously, wondering why he was sulking. George lifted his head and tried his hardest to act himself for the rest of the ride. After all, this would be his last ride in the flying car.

Or would it? He could change the past now, right? He and Fred had always regretted riding the train to Hogwarts, while Harry and Ron were flying into the Whomping Willow. What could be more fun?

George briefly considered that maybe that was a bad idea. But the thought that this could be his last great adventure with Fred convinced him otherwise. It was the perfect idea.

Remembering their current adventure, George looked briefly out the window, and realized how amazing it was to be racing in a car, this high above the ground, with the thrill of knowing they could be caught any second.

George laughed. He immediately clamped his hand over his mouth afterward, surprised by how easily it had come. He hadn't laughed in 7 days, and 2 steps.

George laughed. And it felt good.

"But Percy wouldn't lend him to me," George heard Ron say from the back. "Said he needed him."

George, having not paid any attention to the conversation in the back, would've been completely lost had he not listened to this exact conversation five years ago. He vaguely remembered that Ron was saying something about Percy's new owl, Errol.

"Percy's been acting very oddly this summer," said George. With all of his confused emotions regarding Percy in the last 7 days, which all had to do with Percy abandoning them, then coming back in time for Fred to forgive him, then _not_ saving Fred during the explosion... well, it felt great to be able to make fun of Percy again, the same way he had so long ago, when Percy was still living with them and was just an uptight older brother, not a family traitor. "And he _ha_sbeen sending a lot of letters and spending a load of time shut up in his room....I mean, there's only so many times you can polish a prefect badge....You're driving too far west, Fred," George added, pointing at a compass on the dashboard. Fred adjusted the steering wheel.

George allowed himself to enjoy the rest of the car ride, pretending he really was 14, and that he had no idea how this adventure ended. How _everything_ ended... like Fred's life.

"Touchdown!" said Fred as, with a slight bump, they hit the ground.

The four of them got out of the car, getting more excited as they got closer to the Burrow. Nothing can compare to the feeling of knowing that one wrong step could get you caught. George had forgotten what it felt like, and now he remembered. It felt like laughing. It felt good.

"Now," said Fred. "We'll go upstairs really quietly, and wait for Mum to call us for breakfast. Then, Ron, you come bounding downstairs going, 'Mum, look who turned up in the night!' and she'll be all pleased to see Harry and no one need ever know we flew the car."

George froze, suddenly remembering what happened next. He tried to warn the others, but it was too late. She'd seen them.

"Right," said Ron. "Come on, Harry. I sleep at the - at the top -"

Ron had gone a nasty greenish color, his eyes fixed on the house. The other three wheeled around.

Mrs. Weasley was already marching across the yard, looking like a sabre-toothed tiger. A hungry one.

"_Ah_," Fred said.

"Oh, dear," George said.

Mrs. Weasley came to a halt in front of them, her hands on her hips, staring from one guilty face to the next.

"_So_," she said.

"Morning, Mum," said George, in what he clearly thought was a jaunty, winning voice.

"Have you any idea how worried I've been?" said Mrs. Weasley in a deadly whisper.

"Sorry, Mum, but see, we had to-"

All three of Mrs. Weasley's sons were taller than she was, but they cowered as her rage broke over them.

_"Beds empty! No note! Car gone - could have crashed - out of my mind with worry - did you care? - never, as long as I've lived - you wait until your father gets home, we never had trouble like this from Bill or Charlie or Percy-"_

"Perfect Percy," muttered Fred. George briefly wondered why Fred had automatically chosen Percy out of the three names. Because Percy was perfect, of course, but now George was starting to see a pattern, starting to wonder... could Percy's ultimate betrayal of their family somehow be traced back to Fred and George's pranks and comments? George quickly pushed the thought away, though. He and Fred had never second-guessed themselves before, had never wondered if maybe they'd taken something a little too far. Why start now?

"YOU COULD DO WITH TAKING A LEAF OUT OF PERCY'S BOOK!" yelled Mrs. Weasley, prodding a finger in Fred's chest. "You could have _died_, you could have been _seen_, you could have lost your father his _job_-"

It seemed to go on for hours. And during her entire tirade, all George could do was wonder if his mother had spent any of the past 7 days regretting any part of this conversation.

When Mrs. Weasley finally let them back in the house, George felt a pang when he heard the old radio next to the sink announce that coming up was "Witching Hour, with the popular singing sorceress, Celestina Warbeck."

Maybe, just maybe, George regretted groaning whenever his mother had sung along to Celestina Warbeck. She hadn't done that in 7 days.

So, yeah, he regretted it.

"Flying an illegal car halfway across the country - anyone could have seen you-" Mrs. Weasley said as she gave them each a plate of fried eggs.

"It was _cloudy_, Mum!" Fred protested.

"You keep your mouth closed while you're eating!" Mrs. Weasley snapped.

"They were starving him, Mum!" George said.

"And you!" said Mrs. Weasley.

George grinned. _And_. Fred _and _George. Fred _and _you.

Mrs. Weasley proceeded to order them to de-gnome the garden, but not before consulting _Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to Household Pests _first.

"Oh, he is marvelous," she said. "He knows his household pests, all right, it's a wonderful book..."

"Mum _fancies_ him," said Fred, in a barely audible whisper. George smirked.

"Don't be so ridiculous, Fred," said Mrs. Weasley, blushing. "All right, if you think you know better than Lockhart, you can go and get on with it, and woe betide you if there's a single gnome in that garden when I come out to inspect it."

"You want to know what _I _think of Lockhart-" George began, but quickly cut himself off when he remembered that Lockhart wouldn't be exposed as a faker until the end of the year.

As the other three went out to de-gnome the garden, George was struck by an idea. He grabbed a pen and snuck over to the stairs while no one was looking. He hurriedly scratched something into the stairs, on the second step. The first word that, for whatever reason, drifted through his thoughts. He threw the pen aside and ran to catch up with the others. The four of them de-gnomed the garden until they heard Mr. Weasley come home.

"What a night!" Mr. Weasley said as they entered the kitchen. "Nine raides. Nine! And old Mundungus Fletcher tried to put a hex on me when I had my back turned... I had to fix a few shrinking door keys and a biting kettle... the things our lot have taken to enchanting, you wouldn't believe-"

"LIKE CARS, FOR INSTANCE?"

Mrs. Weasley had appeared, holding a long poker like a sword. Mr. Weasley's eyes jerked open. He stared guiltily at his wife.

"C-car's, Molly, dear?"

"Yes, Arthur, cars," said Mrs. Weasley, her eyes flashing. "Imagine a wizard buying a rusty old car and telling his wife all he wanted to do with it was take it apart and see how it worked, while _really_ he was enchanting it to make it _fly_."

Mr. Weasley blinked.

"Well, dear, I think you'll find that he would be quite within the law to do that, even if - er - he maybe would have done better to, um, tell his wife the truth.... There's a loophole in the law, you'll find... As long as he wasn't _intending _to fly the car, the fact that the car _could _fly wouldn't-"

"Arthur Weasley, you made sure there was a loophole when you wrote that law!" shouted Mrs. Weasley. "Just so you could carry on tinkering with all that muggle rubbish in your shed! And for your information, Harry arrived this morning in the car you weren't intending to fly!"

"Harry?" said Mr. Weasley blankly. "Harry who?"

At that moment, George felt detached. It was just a small pang of loneliness, at first, but then it got stronger. He felt almost like he was drifting away. He was suddenly pulled backwards, out the front door of the burrow to the paddock by the apple orchard, where the Weasley's kept their Quidditch brooms. He flew by Ron, Harry, Fred, and memory- George, who were already flying on their brooms, Harry on his Nimbus Two Thousand, which was easily the best broom there. He smirked as he heard Fred comment to Ron, who flew into the air on his old Shooting Star broom at an achingly slow pace.

"Better hurry it up there, Ron," Fred shouted. "Wouldn't want to be outstripped by a passing butterfly."

And then they were gone. One minute they were laughing, the next, they no longer existed. Because, George realized, you can go back and you can be there, but at the end of the day... a memory is just a memory. You can't live in them, because those people _don't exis__t_. Not anymore. 12-year-old Harry Potter doesn't exist, 12-year-old Ron Weasley doesn't exist, and 14-year-old Fred definitely doesn't exist.

What was this, then? What did it mean? He wasn't _watching_ a memory, not like a pensieve, because he was changing what was happening. He wasn't going back in time, because he wasn't using a time-turner, and he couldn't control where he went, or how far back in time.

George suddenly realized that Fred, Harry, and Ron hadn't disappeared. George had just apparated again. From the Burrow... back to the Burrow. He was standing on the second step, but he was 21 again.

Then George remembered what he wrote on the stairs. He kneeled down on the second step, and, sure enough, the writing was there. It was a little worn, but that was to be expected from five years of people stepping on it. If it had really been there for five years? It wasn't there before he apparated from the step. George wrote it while he was remembering something from five years ago. No, while he was _living _something from five years ago, he decided. And now, after he'd apparated back, the writing was still there. It meant something, George concluded. And he was going to find out what.

And the only way to do that, of course, was to take another step. So George raised his right foot off the second step, brushing his shoe against the word he'd written five years ago.

_Home. _


End file.
